Spellbound
by Varvelle
Summary: Draco is eleven years old. He is nothing of Lucius' expectations, but he isn't exactly what he didn't want Draco to become. Rather, his son is a bit... silly. Harry Potter? Well, he's quite silly, too. [Slytherin!Harry Draco; mysteriously!Autistic!Draco and a-bit-off!Goth!Harry; Ooc; eventual HP/DM later]


A/N: Hey! This is a story which just jumped into my mind and I hope it's going to be fun to read for at least one of you! I would be happy if you could give me a review! :) Remember when you read, though: I'm not a native English-speaker! There ARE going to be mistakes! ^/^°

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Draco's eyes followed the first tiny little sun rays which came slowly into his room. The morning dawned and he's been lying awake for exactly twenty minutes and thirty-four seconds. His only motion were the up and down of his eye lashes and the soft heaving of the tiny eleven year olds chest. Soon, his father would come to greet him; like every other day, Lucius Malfoy had been doing these little routine to keep his son safe.

When Draco was five, there had been a fire, directly developing in his bed chamber. Lucius was glad he was having a sudden feeling of needing to get to his son, because as he was entering Draco's space, he had found the younger Malfoy studying the flames, instead of fleeing from them. Well, they had not been exactly a threat; Draco seemingly had them under his control, but for Lucius the fact that he would have to at least visit his son in his room thrice a day was clear.

Draco was fascinated by many things. House elves, for example, he loved to analyse. He often counted the wrinkles on the carpets in the Malfoy's manor and he had always made it clear that he didn't have respect for the ancient walls of the residence. Now, there were paintings of young Draco's art all over the place, good paintings, mind you, but they weren't the Malfoy's taste of culture-y pictures.

Lucius was interested in the sea's living forms and he told so Draco. The next morning, there had been a big painted world of sea creatures and landscapes in Lucius' chamber. How Draco had done this miracle was beyond Lucius' grasp of understanding, but it was wonderful; so he kept it in the ways of Draco Malfoy.

Lucius looked at his son's artery, proudly shaking his head in a fond manner, and went to wake Draco, if Draco was to be woken.

Draco's character had coloured Lucius' and by the time Draco had reached age three, Lucius no longer was in the Dark Arts. Instead, driven by new living arrangements because of Narcissa's abrupt decision to leave the Malfoy family, the man took more care of his offspring.

"Good morning, dad" Draco said softly.

"Good morning, Dragon" Lucius said smiling warmly and petting Draco's shoulder long hair.

"When did you wake up?"

"Twenty-three minutes and forty-seven seconds ago" Draco spoke, looking into nothingness, yet took everything into his eyes. At first, the elder Malfoy had thought it creepy and uncanny for a Malfoy heir to look so innocent, but with intimacy in it. This assumption didn't hold long, because Lucius came over it; just like he came over Draco's 'disease'.

Draco had something the mind healers had called a light case of Autism. Draco solved puzzles in record time, but he struggled with finding the need in wearing clothes properly. That's how Lucius had this mental disorder in mind; in Draco's case, anyway. Sometimes, it still was strange to see Draco hearing to Muggle music, humming the tunes while sitting at the floor, his eyes never closing, only rapidly blinking every minute or so.

"Do you want to eat breakfast here or in the dining room?" Lucius questioned.

The answer came delayed, fifteen seconds later. "Here"

With a huff, Draco sprung out of the black sheets, turning on the music. Three years ago, when he had discovered the fun in Muggle things, his father had bought him an electric gramophone; Lucius had pointed out, since wizards didn't have any electricity at all, that the gramophone won't work.

However, Draco had done, yet again, the impossible: He had brought the gramophone to function in the wizarding world. Lucius, of course, had asked his son how he'd done it and Draco just looked at his father, saying it was too complicated to explain.

'The Cure' was heard in the room as Lucius called Dobby, a pesky little house elf, to make breakfast.

At #4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, a young black haired boy with emerald green orbs lift his eyebrow as he looked at the coaly something his Aunt named proudly 'chicken with chips'. Nobody was arguing with Petunia Dursley, but secretly everyone in the household agreed on her lack of cookery. Well, Petunia only cooked on special occasions and this day, a teacher would come to Privet Drive.

This was not rare. Harry Potter's teachers always demanded on a conversation with the boy's relatives.

It wasn't Harry's a bit pessimistic attitude or his grades which made his life harder than necessary; no, it was Harry's style of clothing and make-up. Yes, he wore make-up and skin-tight jeans, a trench coat and laced boots. He was a tad bit taller than the others in the class and his black framed eyes and the black nail polish surely didn't make his classmates want to spend time with him.

Harry was okay with that. He understood why they just threw a glance at him, nothing more; nothing less. He was a very understanding person; and was also the first one to notice his cousin's dyslexia. It led to a more civil handling of Harry.

He had been five that time. In his mind, Harry had considered it a case of mystery, to be only solved by him. Harry had analyzed the situation, went to the library and read all different kinds of psychological books. In less than a month he knew why his cousin couldn't read properly however hard he tried to. He also knew why his cousin would be aggressive nearly the whole time. Soon after young Harry told his Aunt about the anger and dyslexia, Dudley was sent to boxing lessons and was told how he could manage the reading disability.

Harry, from that day on, had never seen the cupboard under the stairs again. This caused a spurt in growth and general health as he now got a healthy amount of food. It brought him also to the gothic style. He read Edgar Allan Poe and heard Bauhaus, but his very understanding character trait was nonetheless prominent and he didn't mind finding out other cultures of life he could mix in his own.

On this Saturday, Harry baked cake before his Aunt started to make the highly toxic-looking thing which lay on the counter. Harry was tempted to joke around on how it practically cried 'Kill me', but Petunias eyes were filled with so much pride, he didn't dare to.

"So... what did you do now?" Dudley asked Harry while he was concentrated on a video game.

Harry flinched a little at the sudden display of conversation and sat up from the couch he was laying on. He sighed and began to tell: "Well, apparently, I am the son of Satan. My religious education teacher was a total jerk. I mean, really! Just because he's a racist and can't control children he shouldn't let his frustration out on somebody who is actually following the class!"

Dudley snickered. It was obvious his cousin had argued with the teacher until the teacher was too cowed to find anything worth saying and now had to meet Harry's caretakers to defend himself.

It happened at least three times a month and was nothing new to anybody.

"Bet he's going to abuse his power as teacher once again..." the raven haired murmured. He knew where it was ending... in a C instead of an A like he deserved. Whatever; he couldn't do anything to change it.

Dudley rolled his eyes. "That's people. You are lucky to be intelligent enough to get high grades unaffected by them! I'm not as lucky as you, you know?" The last part was mumbled. Harry was proud to hear his cousin speak with a more developed language he had taught him.

"Yes, I know... Dinky Duddydums." Harry giggled as he was hit by a pillow. Dudley truly hated the atrocious nicknames Petunia gave him.

About thirty minutes later, Harry's teacher arrived at number 4, Privet Drive. He was a short fat man with barely any hair on his head. He also had some nasty pimples all over his face. The tight smile he gave Harry's family faltered when he warily glanced over at Harry himself who was reading one of his favourite Poe stories.

Petunia beamed happily and invited the now nervously sweating teacher to the table.

"Mr Travis, is it?" The scrawny blonde woman made a short pause until Mr Travis nodded, "We are glad you stop by to speak with my husband and I! So, tell me; how is Harry doing in school?" Petunia asked.

Mr Travis swallowed hard, his eyes floating from Harry to his Aunt and back. He didn't know what to say. He hadn't imagined the Dursley's to be this welcoming and warm towards him.

The teacher sighed and then said: "Young Mr Potter is a difficult child. His mind is, at times, a bit altered, it seems. He isn't like a normal kid. Harry is most of the time quiet, but he's working hard, you can clearly say. However, he has serious problems with his classmates. He is always so angry and..." Mr Travis stopped abruptly.

Harry had his book in his right hand.

The Potter did not open his mouth.

He didn't swear or was affected by Mr Travis' speech.

No; all Harry did was to smile. It grew bigger and soon his teeth showed.

It was a surreal moment. Petunia, Vernon (who was still the whole time), Dudley and Mr Travis halted every movement and every indication of doing anything at all.

That is, until Harry began to giggle; then to laugh. Tears from laughing were coming out of his eyes.

Harry said, his voice raspy: "That was quite a joke! Mr Travis, I surely didn't know you could be this funny!"

"It wasn't a joke, Mr Potter. You are a danger to them... I mean... I... you're a smart boy, aren't you, Harry?" Mr Travis tried to save his true intentions.

"I think you should go" Vernon suddenly said. He grabbed Mr Travis and shoved the shocked teacher into the cool air of the night.

Mr Travis could hear cackling when he walked down the street.

He could hear it at home, following him to sleep, that maniac cackling was.

Even in his dream he heard it.

When Harry had his next religious education course, Mr Travis was ill.

And Harry smirked knowingly. His ambitions really made his life alot lighter.


End file.
